There have been whisperings-in-corners and indignant looks aplenty this week down at the village to accompany the spicy scent of scandal in the air, due to the revelation that dusty old Tremblefinger (butler down at Cameltoe Hall of forty years standing) had upon his retirement consented to publish extracts of his memoirs in the parish magazine.

The blood runs cold and the toes curl to think of the catalogue of disgraces witnessed by the staid old buffer in his devout years of keyhole-peeping, an era blessed by the numerous passions and illicit liaisons of Lady Cecilia Cameltoe, renowned the length and breadth of the county as the femme fatale of the local aristocracy.

Undoubtedly, Lady C would dearly love to set the hounds on her former servant but the truth will out, the cat cannot be kept in the bag any longer and the chickens will surely come home to roost in their own good time.

Like many of the guilty menfolk hereabouts, i would rather these sorry episodes were left undisturbed and unpublished, unwilling to see my longstanding reputation as an upright member of the community blemished by revelations of momentary weaknesses in Lady C's bedchamber, i was naive to believe that old Tremblefinger wasn't secretly observing (and making notes) as i became devoured by a that devilishly experienced seductress.

Naturally, we all have skeletons within our closets but i prefer to keep a dignified silence on such matters and am especially quiet about the corsets, horsewhips, riding-boots and silken ties, thank-you very much.

Our final hope rests with a plot to silence the conniving old bugger once and for all, before his tittle-tattle enters the public domain...i have bribed the housekeeper to lace his evening cocoa liberally with viagra in the desire that he may beat himself to death during the night.

corset